Drowning in the Sea
by Zeech
Summary: Arkansas Dave Rudabaugh left his gang for dead in Stinking Springs, including the man that saved his life only hours before. Weeks later, in the darkness of his room, the consequences reach a disturbing climax.


**Author's Note**: This has been bothering me for sometime. Why exactly _did_ Chavez go back for Dave, and did Dave ever lose sleep over abandoning the man that had saved his life? This is just my take on it, what I think to be a more fitting end to the career of Arkansas Dave Rudabaugh. 

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**Drowning in the Sea**

For being told at a very young age that he was quite possibly, and in all likelihood mad, Dave Rudabaugh took it well. "Mad" gave him excuses, explanations, guiltless reasons to be wild, reckless, condescending, and intolerably uncaring for the laws of men. The mad little boy soon grew to be the mad young man that, after a number of years pillaging and thieving, had come to be known as "Arkansas Dave" Rudabaugh: the cackling young devil that had ravaged Las Vegas.

He was born mad.

That was why, wasn't it? That was why he was able to fly over the Mexican border and leave his gang for dead. Yes. It felt better knowing that, knowing that he had been mad enough to choose reason over something as ludicrous as what Billy believed. Dave Rudabaugh was mad, and with every mug of liquor for a long month he tried to convince himself of that. His story was told to anyone who would listen. 

Whores let him know what he wanted to hear: that the decision he made was the only intelligent choice, and that he was Arkansas Dave Rudabaugh, a name they knew as well as their own. It was all that mattered, of course, though as the days passed Dave realized it wasn't quenching his thirst as he expected. It was never quite as satisfying as he once imagined it would be.

Dave sat alone in a dank room of a Mexican man's boarding house, now. Second floor, right beside a rotting staircase that winded up to the other part of the house as if it may crumble at any moment. Bottles lay around his creaky bed, some half-empty, some dry for days now, and his old worn coat was all that decorated the walls. It was set hanging beside window so dirty only shades of orange light could penetrate the waxy textured glass. It splayed about his room as yellow ages paper, and darkened the corners. 

The bleakness didn't bother him so much, and he stretched his legs out on the feather bed, trousers rolled up to just above the ending of ragged gray socks. Dave was loading an old six-shooter with his remaining five bullets; slowly, savoring every groan the lead made against the steel as they each fell into place. 

He was mad.

When one was mad it was said that they didn't feel as others did, that they could seek only the thrills of life and of the very moment, not made to suffer the burdens of guilt, of sorrow. Unimaginable torment, this ridiculous thing called reason. Dave had seldom experienced guilt, yet never before had its spirit lingered so long.

Dave felt their echo, their ghosts, rather than an actual sensation others had come to know as guilt. It was in no way comforting; Dave found it to be worse. The ghosts of guilt were ten fold the horror of their living kind, and it was the grief they brought that kept him incarcerated in his own prison.

One of his thin calloused hands slid the last heavy slug into place, and he effortlessly snapped the gun whole again. Dave released a ragged sigh, and ran his free hand through his dirty fringe of hair, holding the only undying friend he had up to the failing light the window provided. She still gleamed for him, even in this darkness.

Dave found himself frowning, though an erratic grin coaxed his dry lips to contradict it. 

"I fell," the outlaw whispered hoarsely, brows furrowed into a thoughtful expression. Dave let his head fall lazily to the side, bringing his deadened eyes to focus on the light from the evening that spilled onto his floor.  "I fell, you son of a bitch, why'd you come back for me?" And the question never came without an answer - an answer that repeated itself endlessly through memories.

It had been cold and windless, the morning after Tommy had been killed. Hardly anyone spoke, except for himself, as had usually been the case even in a situation such as this. Dave admitted disappointment at the loss of their youngest rider, but it wasn't foremost on his mind. Something else had bothered him even more, and it was like the sting of a bee – over in a seconds time, but it kept throbbing in the back of his thoughts .

The whole of it was a blur save for sounds and vague sensations. The pounding of hooves on dry canyon soil. Cries of excitement and fear. A gunshot crashed overhead, and Dave had felt the earth itself come up at him with the force of a hundred pounding fists. Before he let the shock and surprise latch on and pull him down with bony black fingers he sprang to his feet. 

And when he had finally gotten Chavez alone, away from the other boys, he had summoned up enough courage to ask him why. Against his own will, his voice had betrayed his uncertainty, but Chavez just grazed him with a black-eyed glance. Perhaps the first time he had made a point of looking at him before speaking, and those two seconds of being under Chavez' eyes had made his heart begin to race. It was almost painful, and he hoped the other man was not so keen as to actually hear it drumming, pounding the walls of his chest.

/Has it been bothering you so much?/

The question had caught him off guard, bare, with no premeditated response or excuse, and worse, no snide retaliations. Dave quickly shook his head, and shrugged one of his leather-clad shoulders to come across as careless – never had he felt so utterly ridiculous, and vulnerable to attack. 

_/Can't a guy be curious?/ _ A question for a question, it earned a sardonic look from Chavez. Dave found himself staring back, unable to take cover behind a few strands of unruly brown bangs and a scowl that had held strong a million and one times, all up until this hour. It failed him, and Dave resorted to crossing his arms over his chest and averting his eyes to the fire. Chavez' voice when he replied was slow, and thought out - as if his answer was not one he wanted to be taken lightly, and he had pondered it many times himself. 

_/I went back for you, Dave/, _Chavez had used his first name in place of some other degrading term, and with a certain lack of insult_. _It caught the other man's attention. In fact, Dave never remembered Chavez saying his name before at all – he only remembered shivering as it lingered in the air between them, like a hand offering itself. One he was too weary to take hold of. /_Because someone once did the same for me, when all the odds in the world fought against him. And he died because it.  I never got the chance to repay him./_ Chavez reclaimed his gaze, and when their eyes locked Dave was once again half the man he had never been. _/Like Chivato says. Pals, right?/_

The smile behind Chavez' eyes offered Dave a chance to smirk, and he rolled his eyes heavenward. This earned a tiny grin from Chavez, and Dave held his hands up as if making a peace offering. _/Alright, then, pals. Whatever you people say./_

And it was that simple. Chavez would never receive any reward for his actions; there was no benefit for him in the act of saving another's life save the alien satisfaction of honor that Dave was never fit to understand. Because Dave Rudabaugh could never understand it, and when the realization dawned on him, the orange light had stopped coming in the window. His room grew dark.

Dave inhaled deeply, and it made for a few seconds of relief from the tightness in his chest. His reason, the reason he had used and lived with for twenty years, was no longer credible. It was a dellusion he had created, and had crumbled at his feet when he needed it the most.

_/That mad little boy./_

His thumb ran lightly over the tip of the hammer, and he broke the silence with a click as it set back to fire. The one constant in the universe Dave had feared was change, never death. The change of time, the change of society, the change of situation, and worst of all the change within. Dave had changed. Everything had changed, and he hated it. Where everything had once made sense, chaos now reined. 

He traced the end of the barrel up over his cheek, letting it scrape against his stubble, and Dave enjoyed the feel of the cold against his fevered skin. It trailed, and trailed, and ended up against his temple, buried beneath pieces of dirty brown hair. 

_/Pals./_

Something Arkansas Dave never fit in with, something Arkansas Dave would never understand, and something Arkansas Dave Rudabaugh was incapable of feeling until it was too late – until he could never have it again. He hated Chavez for bringing this onslaught, for taking away the joy of what his unbridled existence had once been. Dave hated Chavez for making him hate himself, for curing his madness. For showing him kindness, and with it opening his eyes to the disturbing reality of himself. 

The initial cold of the metal against his skin started to fade, and for the first time in twenty years he thought of his mother, unable to picture anything of her appearance save the color of her eyes. Soft, brown, and sinking slowly away from him. Before tears had a chance, Dave pulled the trigger.

_/I'm standing in the river_

_now I'm drowning in the sea/_

**end**


End file.
